


El Bueno Granto

by Owl_by_Night



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: F/M, Kink Meme, M/M, Multi, Spanking, team peninsula orgy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 17:50:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8499427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owl_by_Night/pseuds/Owl_by_Night
Summary: Written for a kinkmeme prompt - 5 times Grant had his arse spanked and one time he did the spanking.





	1. Grant/Wellington

**Author's Note:**

> The original prompt - Major Grant has a particularly excellent backside that is, I believe, begging for a good spanking. I can’t decide who I would prefer to do such a thing so…. five times Grant had his arse spanked and one time he did the spanking?
> 
> And then an orgy happened. I have no excuses to offer.
> 
> Contains spanking of a very consensual nature and submissive Grant.

El Bueno Granto.    
That's what they call him and when he's like this, it's easy to see why.  He's stretched out asleep, pleasingly naked, with the morning sun warming the bare skin of his back. His hair shines gold in the light.   
Wellington runs a possessive hand over the curve of Grant’s strong shoulders, down the length of his spine and lower, over the curve of his arse. Last night that skin had been decorated with marks, the prints of hands and the stripes from a riding crop. This morning the redness has faded, leavings only shadows that hint at the beginning of bruises here and there. Wellington had tried to be careful, to cause pain but not damage: there’s no sense in having one of his officers unable to ride. Yet the temptation had been there, with Grant stripped naked and bent over for him in such willing submission. His hands clutching, white-knuckled against the headboard and his arse such a pleasing curve of unblemished skin, begging to be marked. El Bueno Granto indeed.    
There's much to be said for having such a man in one's bed.   
Grant stirs, waking and brushing the sleep from his eyes with his thumb. He looks at Wellington, unbothered by his state of undress.    
"Would you like me to leave you now, my Lord?"  
Wellington rolls over in the bed, watching as Grant stretches luxuriously against him.   
"On the contrary, Major Grant, I think I'd like you to stay."  
He rests his hand on that tempting curve again, fingers pressing none too gently against the shadow of a bruise on his hip. Grant arches his back like a cat, baring his neck in a way that begs for a kiss… or a bite.    
“We have a little time, I believe, before you will be expected back.”    
“Yes, my Lord,” Grant says, very low. His dark eyes look down now, a far cry from his earlier directness, and it makes Wellington want him all the more.    
“Bend over, hands out in front of you and don’t move them.”  
Grant positions himself obediently. There’s no time this morning for anything complicated, but neither of them need much in the way of encouragement. Even so, Wellington can’t help but slap Grant’s arse hard with the flat of his hand before he fucks him.    
There’s no need to be gentle with him so Wellington sets a bruising pace, pleased to think that the marks of his hands will linger on Grant’s skin.    
Afterwards he pulls away and lies back on the bed, breathing hard. Grant is still hard and trembling with want. Wellington runs his hands over every bit of skin he can reach except where Grant wants him most.    
“Shall I send you back to De Lancey like this? Let him take his turn?”  
Grant only bows his head, his hair sticking to his damp face. 


	2. Grant/De Lancey

Grant returns to his quarters to find De Lancey waiting for him, leaning back in his chair with a knowing smirk on his face.   
"A good night then?" he asks.  
"You know my Lord," Grant tells him, stripping off his uniform jacket so he can don a fresh shirt. "Guaranteed to deliver a good hard pounding. Is that water hot?"  
William comes to stand behind him as he shaves. He puts his hand possessively on Grant's waist, pushes forcefully forward against his arse. Grant groans, lifting the razor away from his skin for safety.   
"Have mercy William, his Lordship has made very free with me last night and this morning. Bad enough I have to ride tomorrow.”  
“I wish I could have watched,” William whispers in his ear, hands tight on Grant’s hips. He nuzzles into Grant’s neck, letting his teeth graze over the mark that Wellington left there. “My God, you still smell of his bed.”    
Grant opens his mouth in a silent plea. His eyes are dark in the mirror, pupils wide and black against the brown. He licks his lips.    
“Can you persuade him to have us both next time? Let him watch while I tie you and beat you, your mouth on his Lordship’s cock while I fuck you?”    
Grant whimpers, an undignified sound, and De Lancey rewards him for it by unbuttoning Grant’s breeches. William strokes him roughly, pushing the breeches down so he can see Grant’s bare arse and admire the marks.    
“You smell of his bed, you’re still wet from his fucking,” William ruts against Grant’s thigh. “Do you have any idea how much I want to bend you over that bed and fuck you myself?”  
“Please, please William.”  
“Oh God, I can’t, you know I can’t. Not if you want to ride tomorrow.”  
Grant leans his head back on William’s shoulder and whines, rocking forward into the circle of William’s fingers on his cock and back against the fingers for his other hand, rubbing against him where his lordship has left him open and wet.   
“Please, I need… he said I should come to you…”  
“Did he indeed?” De Lancey’s breath is hot against Grant’s ear as he speaks. “And were you going to tell me this? Were you going to deny me what is mine?”    
Grant shakes his head but De Lancey pushes him down anyway to kneel on the bed. He spanks him with a cupped palm, more noise than pain, but sharp enough when his hand lands where Wellington has made his mark. When Grant is a begging mess of need beneath his hands, William unfastened his own breeches and takes himself in hand. It takes him no time at all to reach his crisis, letting his seed fall over reddened skin, knowing that Wellington has seen this same sight this morning. Grant shudders when he feels it, hips thrusting into the air but too obedient to touch himself. William, smugly content with this beginning to his morning, rolls Grant over and sucks him as a reward. 


	3. Grant/De Lancey/Wellington/Strange

Jonathan knows nothing of Grant’s activities in the bedroom until the man comes back wounded from spying behind enemy lines. It’s a minor wound, just the graze of a bullet down his thigh, but he sits stoically to have it stitched by the surgeon while he gives his report to the Duke. Merlin is asked to attend in case he can use the information, but most of his attention is taken by the glimpse of Grant’s bare skin beneath the surgeon’s needle and the way he shows no outward sign of discomfort besides occasionally pressing his lips together against the pain.    
Jonathan knows himself well enough to know that if were to sustain such an injury, he would cry out or swear, and he doesn’t think he is much less brave than the soldiers. He has certainly heard others curse when having their wounds dressed.    
De Lancey sees him watching, sees the way Grant has been watching the magician in turn, and makes him an offer he really can’t refuse. Which is how he finds himself one evening, sitting beside his Lordship after dinner and watching as De Lancey strips Grant first of his uniform and then of all coherent thought. He is blindfolded, but De Lancey tells him, “Merlin is here Grant, he is watching you,” and Grant’s head jerks up, looking blindly across the room with his eyes bound shut behind red silk. The noise he makes is one that Jonathan never thought to hear him make.    
“You like that, don’t you? We’ve seen you looking. Did you want him to see you like this?”    
Grant whines.    
“Hands!” De Lancey snaps at him, and Grant holds out his wrists in perfect obedience for De Lancey to bind them. The rope is rough and pulled tight. Jonathan fidgets. There’s an appeal in Grant’s submission, but it feels a little close to cruelty and the man is still wounded, white linen circled about his thigh.    
“Settle down, Merlin,” Wellington tells him quietly, “he’s had a hard time of it and this is his reward. De Lancey knows what he is doing.”    
De Lancey looks up at that and smiles, blindingly, at his Lordship. Jonathan thinks that he must be on his mettle this evening. Stripped to his breeches and shirtsleeves he puts on a fine show of hobbling Grant’s ankles and then stroking his prick to hardness while Wellington stretches out in his chair in obvious enjoyment.    
When Grant is aroused to his satisfaction, De Lancey lets fly with a riding crop, scattering the blows across Grant’s backside and shoulders. As he was under the surgeon’s hands, Grant is stoic to begin with. De Lancey has to work hard at him, sweat beading on his forehead until the pleasure Grant feels at such treatment overcomes his natural restraint. Jonathan watches, dry mouthed, as his control crumbles, leaving him desperate and begging.    
“Please,” he says as the blows fall on the rounded curve of his arse, “please, William I want… I want.”    
“That’s enough now, De Lancey,” his Lordship says, voice a little rougher than usual. “Bring him here.”    
De Lancey guides him, still blindfolded, and drops him to his knees in front of Wellington, who unbuttons the fall of his breeches. Jonathan has the most intimate view of the way that Grant licks his lips before he takes Wellington’s hard length into his mouth. He watches, breathing hard, as Grant moans and sucks with enthusiasm, his mouth red and spit slick. He can see the outline of Wellington’s prick pushed against his cheek as he thrusts forwards.    
“My Lord,” De Lancey says, equally breathless, “may I, my Lord?”  
“As you wish, De Lancey.”    
Jonathan has no idea how the man can sound so calm with Grant’s mouth on him. De Lancey at least is not calm, given permission to indulge in his own desires, and Jonathan wishes that he were the one kneeling behind Grant and pushing his prick into that hot body, pressing tight against the reddened skin of his arse. He grips the arms of his chair tight in an effort at restraint as De Lancey grunts with the effort of his fucking.    
“You can touch yourself, Merlin,” Wellington tells him and Jonathan reaches for the buttons of his trousers with shaking fingers. Watching Grant pinned between the other men has left him desperate and he bites his lip at the first touch of his hand. He watches Grant and only Grant, imagining that instead of his hand, it is Grant’s mouth on his hard prick. He feels lightheaded with how much he wants it. He hears rather than sees De Lancey climax, but he watches as Wellington spills into Grant’s mouth and the sight of it removes the last shred of his self-control.    
“Well done, Grant,” Wellington says, “you have made my magician spill his seed. Hold out your hand, Merlin.”    
Jonathan, shaking, does as he asks and Wellington guides it to Grant’s lips so that he can lick the mess from Jonathan’s fingers.    
“Touch him, De Lancey.”  
With De Lancey’s hand on him, and his tongue laving Jonathan’s palm, Grant shakes his way to his release and then folds to the floor, utterly spent.


	4. Grant/Strange - plus one

It is not until they have returned from the Peninsula and the three of them are at the Bedford for the evening that Jonathan finds the right moment to ask Grant why he enjoys the bed games he does.    
“Surely you know that, Merlin?” De Lancey asks him incredulously, “I thought you’d been enjoying them yourself. I certainly have.”    
“Yes, we are all aware that, thank you,” Grant toasts De Lancey with his glass, “I believe Merlin is asking something rather different.”    
Jonathan feels himself flush under that knowing gaze. Grant is not in a submissive mood this evening and Jonathan wonders again how someone so strong and determined can take such pleasure in the blows of a hand or belt. His own boyhood beatings certainly never brought him anything but discomfort and although he has watched Grant with the others, he has never been tempted to land a blow of his own.   
“Well then Merlin, trust yourself to me this evening and we’ll see how you enjoy it.”    
Grant sends De Lancey away after that, despite his protests at ending the evening early, and takes Jonathan back to his rooms. He strips himself and encourages Jonathan to do the same.    
“I don’t think you’d enjoy it if I stayed clothed. I don’t want you to be embarrassed Merlin.”    
Jonathan is already embarrassed, truth be told. He has not often been completely bare in front of the others, nor been so carefully studied. Grant steps forward and kisses him, slow and sweet. He pets the back of Jonathan’s neck as he does so, a calming movement that makes Jonathan’s shoulders feel less tight.   
Grant ends the kiss and sits down. “Come here, Merlin," he says, "over my knees.”    
Jonathan goes, bending so that he is draped over Grant’s strong, muscled thighs. The hairs of his legs tickle Jonathan’s chest and stomach and Grant's skin is hot against him. He feels exposed, a little foolish, tense with anticipation. Grant runs a gentle hand over his back and Jonathan flinches. Grant laughs, not unkindly.   
“Easy, Merlin, I’ll not strike you without warning.” He sounds so calm that Jonathan instinctively trusts him. He relaxes a little over Grant’s thighs as Grant continues the slow, gentle strokes over his back and then lower, over the curve of his bare arse.    
“This isn’t punishment Merlin, this is about pleasure. They are closer sensations than you think. Now spread your legs for me.”    
Grant runs his hand over Jonathan’s arse again and down between his legs. Jonathan draws in a sharp breath as Grant caresses his hardening prick with slow, even strokes.    
“You like that, Merlin?”    
“Yes,” he gasps, feeling slightly dizzy as he lies there, head lowered, entirely in Grant’s hands and under Grant’s control.    
“Unlike De Lancey, you prefer gentleness, don’t you Merlin?”    
Grant lulls him into a daze with his hands, stroking and teasing, making his skin burn with arousal. He can feel Grant’s own prick, heavy against his side, and there’s a pleasure in knowing that Grant wants this too, wants him.    
The first slide of oil makes him jump when it lands cold against his skin, and then he moans as Grant slides his fingers against him, teasing and intimate. It’s been a long time since this was done to him and Grant is skillful, knowing just how to touch him so that Jonathan is reduced to nothing more than the sensation of his hands.    
“I’m going to spank you now Merlin, just once.”    
The blow lands before he has time to tense against it, a sharp sting across his arse and then followed immediately afterwards by a hand on his prick, distracting him and soothing him.    
Grant does it again, touching him so quickly afterwards that the sting of his hand starts to blur into the pleasure of his touches. He seems to know exactly when Jonathan can tolerate another blow and when to be kinder, gentler: when to bring him slowly into a state of helpless pleasure by the rhythm of his fingers inside Jonathan's body and when to suddenly break the steady climb towards his peak. Unable to keep still any longer, Jonathan pushes his hips forwards against Grant’s thigh, and Grant leans forward to kiss his shoulder.    
“Very good Merlin, very good. If you can keep still for me for five strokes you shall have your reward.”    
Merlin, hazy with lust, nods his agreement and Grant smacks him smartly, harder than before.    
“Count them, Merlin.”    
“One.”    
The second is gentler, the third harder still. Without the immediate reward of a touch to his prick, the sensation is less pleasant, but Grant’s voice praises him and promises him pleasure, if he will be good. Only two more. He wants to come so badly he thinks he could bear any number of blows.   
The fourth makes him cry out but Grant strokes him again afterwards and Jonathan finds himself unexpectedly close to his release.    
“One more, Merlin.” Grant’s fingers slide into him, stroking until Jonathan gasps with the desire for more, hovering on the edges of climax. The final blow is a sharp sting, hardly faded as Grant’s hand grasps him, tipping him over the edge. He whimpers and his seed falls hot against Grant’s thigh and the floor.   
“My God, Merlin, do you have any idea how much I want you?”   
Jonathan makes a broken sound. He is wrung out but still wanting and Grant’s prick is wet against his bare skin. Jonathan struggles up off his lap and looks at him, with his flushed face and eyes dark, breathing hard.   
“What do you want? Ask me for anything.”   
“Anything, Merlin?”   
The anything that Grant asks for is to take Jonathan to bed and fuck him, gently and thoroughly, until he can hardly remember his own name.


	5. Arabella/Grant/Strange

Jonathan returns from Norrell’s house in a temper. In hope of consolation he directs his steps to Arabella’s private sitting room and when he opens the door he is confronted with a scene that stops his bad temper in its tracks. Arabella is sitting in her favourite chair and sipping tea as any fashionable lady might at this hour, but to Jonathan's pleasure he finds that Grant is with her and in a state of undress decidedly not the convention for afternoon calls. He is out of uniform, stripped to his breeches and shirt. With his cravat missing, his shirt gapes open to expose the strong lines of his neck and shoulders and he is sitting, almost lolling at Arabella's feet, with his head resting in her lap. He reminds Jonathan of nothing so much as the lions in the Royal menagerie: such powerful creatures but with their power restrained, content to lie dozing in the sun.   
"Would you like some tea, Jonathan?" Arabella asks him, as though she were not carding her fingers through Grant's hair in a way that makes Jonathan half expect to hear him purr. Grant has, it seemed, already dropped into that docile, sensual mood he enters when there are games to be played. Jonathan is mesmerised by the slow, regular movement of Bell's fingers as she strokes the golden locks, utterly in control. Jonathan feels himself stiffen in his breeches at the thought of it. He is torn between the desire to sit and stare at the picture they make together, and a longing to kneel at Arabella’s feet himself.    
“Do sit down Jonathan,” Arabella tells him, “and drink your tea. I assume Norrell was as provoking as usual?”  
He nods and gulps at the tea in a reflexive way, lost for any other response although it’s too hot and burns his mouth. As irritated as he had been before, he had forgotten anything at all to do with Norrell from the moment he walked in.   
"I thought after spending the morning with him, you might be in need of a strong cup of tea and a distraction." She smiles at him and he realises then that this whole scene has been planned for him, by Grant and Arabella together. The anticipation thrills him.    
“Come here,” Arabella says to Grant, tugging at his hair gently at first and then less gently so he makes a faint noise of protest. The sound makes Jonathan shift in his chair as she puts a hand under Grant’s chin and tugs him upwards until his head is on a level with hers. She kisses him, slow and lingering, still holding the curve of his jaw. His hands are folded obediently behind his back so that he can only balance by leaning against her. Jonathan’s teacup rattles against the saucer.    
“Drink your tea, Jonathan. It will grow cold.”    
He sips again, not tasting it at all. He knows instinctively that he may not join them yet: he must wait to be invited. He swallows more tea as he watches them kiss. Grant makes soft, hungry noises in his throat. Arabella slides her hands under his shirt and tugs it over his head. She runs her hands over his chest and then asks him to turn. As he does so, his dark eyes meet Jonathan’s and his mouth falls open a little, tongue licking at his lips. Arabella kisses a soft line down the side of his neck and Grant shivers.    
“Tea, Jonathan,” Bell reminds him and he swallows the cold dregs, gulping too large a mouthful in a hurry to be done with it. He puts the cup down with a shaking hand as Arabella reaches around Grant to unbutton his breeches and free his hard length. She strokes him with gentle, exploratory strokes and his head lolls back against her shoulder. Jonathan knows what the touch of her hands feels like. He can imagine himself so clearly in Grant's place that his prick presses hard against the confining fabric of his clothes. Arabella gives him a knowing smile and lets her teeth graze Grant's neck. With her free hand she pinches sharply at his nipple until he makes a shocked sound.    
“Jonathan, I want you to remove your clothes now. There’s oil on the table for you to prepare yourself.”    
It’s the strangest, most intimate thing Jonathan has ever done, stripping off his garments while Grant and Arabella watch him. Grant hardly seems able to look away, even as Arabella strokes and fondles him, holding him caged tight within the circle of her arms. Separated by the width of the room, a small enough distance in reality but feeling insurmountably wide, Jonathan kneels opposite them, with the bottle of oil in his shaking fingers. He has never been watched by such a captive audience as this and is makes him weak-kneed with desire. The first touch of his own fingers is a new and shocking thing when accompanied by Grant’s whine of longing and Arabella’s low, quiet ‘oh’, a sound he associates with the first slide of his prick into her wetness.    
He is driven on by their admiration, their need, by the flush of Arabella's face and her hand stroking Grant's prick. He wants that hardness within him. Needs it. He rushes, fumbling, grasping himself and stroking almost roughly to balance out the sting of too much, too soon.    
“Enough now,” Arabella tells him, “come here. By the fire, on your knees.”  
He bends as instructed, stricken with wanting, and feels the heat of Grant’s body press close behind him. The stretch of hard flesh sliding into him makes him sob, leaning forward over his hands. Grant pants behind him, hips jerking. For all his outward restrained calm, he must have been on edge a long time. He fucks as though his life depends on it, long hard strokes that leave Jonathan dazed and blissful.    
Lost in the sensation of it, the first slap of flesh against flesh as Arabella smacks her hand against Grant’s arse takes him by surprise. Grant cries out, rhythm faltering, and Jonathan feels the hard length of his prick twitch within him.    
Arabella spanks him again and again. Where Grant had been silent with Wellington and De Lancey, with Arabella he is loud. He moans his appreciation of it, thrusting ever more wildly until Jonathan sees stars.    
“Jonathan first,” Arabella says, “as we agreed.” Grant cries out again, pushing harder against Jonathan so that he has to brace himself to avoid falling. Arabella moves, kneeling beside Jonathan and stroking him with the clever twist of her fingers that always drives him wild. Grant must be very close: Jonathan can feel him bend low, pressing his face tight against Jonathan’s back. He can feel Grant's hot breath against his spine, the open mouthed kisses he presses against the skin there. It’s enough for Jonathan, more than enough, and he spends in a wet rush of seed over Bell's hand.    
Over his shoulder he can hear her, murmuring to Grant, kissing him and stroking his hair again as she coaxes him into abandoning the last of his restraint. Jonathan feels Grant's release as a wash of heat and wetness within him and then the heavy weight as he drops to lie spent against Jonathan's back, breathing hard. 

 


	6. Grant/De Lancey/Wellington/Strange/Arabella

When Grant had been invited to dinner with the Stranges to mark his birthday, something which he usually ignored in the general way of things, he had not expected the evening to end like this. He is tied and blindfolded, stretched out on Merlin’s bed, teased and tormented to the point of incoherence. Behind him the others are gathered, watching him. He cannot see them, but the knowledge of their watchful gaze makes his prick hang hot and heavy between his legs.    
The first open handed blow strikes him hard across his arse and he rocks against it. He wants to drop into that calm and empty space where no thinking is necessary, but the rules of the game they are playing tonight are making him think. Whose hand has struck him? They promised him rewards if he guessed, and punishment if he could not. He hardly knows which he wants more.    
Another blow, and another. The skin of his arse burns under it. At least he can guess one thing, from the size of the hand striking him.    
“It is not Arabella,” he says. There is a pause, and then the bed dips beside him.   
“Clever boy,” she whispers in his ear, sliding her hand into his hair and guiding his head down to her breasts. She has very fine breasts. Even De Lancey, who professes to have no interest in women, had seemed fascinated by them: exploring them with hands and tongue while Arabella had tousled his hair and let him: the two of them the ones to make the transition most easily from guests at dinner to this.    
“We did promise you a reward for a correct guess,” Wellington comments from behind Grant’s left shoulder. “Let me guide you.” His hand on the back of Grant’s neck pulls him reluctantly away from Arabella’s breasts and down.    
Arabella moans as Wellington parts the folds of her body, giving Grant easier access to where she is wet and slick. He hears Merlin swear behind him as he licks blindly, exploring her by the feel of her flesh under his tongue. The salt taste of her makes him giddy with desire and he pushes his tongue into her, a crude and desperate fucking that he wishes he could replicate with his aching prick. Arabella writhes under him, and he moves upwards to suckle at her hard bud in the way he knows will please her. Above him, he can hear the wet sound of mouth on skin and he wonders if Wellington is showing his own appreciation of Arabella’s beauty.    
Grant would like never to stop, even when Arabella is gasping through her climax, muscles spasming beneath his tongue, but the sharp slap to his thighs jolts him back to obedience.    
“Guess again,” Arabella asks him rather breathlessly as the slaps continue, but they have made it easier for him this time. If Wellington were there with Arabella, it could not have been him landing that first blow and besides, his blows are always distinctively heavy handed, which these are not.    
“It is not my Lord,” he says.    
“As you say.” Wellington sounds almost amused. He strokes a hand along Grant’s back in a caressing fashion. “And you shall be rewarded for it.”    
Grant’s mouth is still wet from Arabella and Wellington’s broad length slides easily between his lips. It fills his mouth in a way that makes him groan, sucking greedily. His Lordship does not show his reactions easily, but Grant is determined. He bobs his head down, almost to the point of choking.    
“Easy,” Wellington tells him, but he groans as Grant swallows around him.    
So distracted is Grant by the act of pulling every reaction he can from his lordship, that he hardly notices the first touch of oiled fingers working him open, but whoever it is has a determination all of their own. By the time Wellington is spilling into his mouth, Grant’s legs are shaking with the desire to be filled and fucked, but as soon as Wellington pulls away the fingers are gone. The feeling of loss combined with the pain of being struck makes him wince. He is near to the limit of what he can endure, but there are only two people to choose from now. De Lancey is the obvious choice because Merlin has never struck him before, but as Grant bows his head under the blows he is more and more sure that this is not William. The slaps are not as expert, more tentative. Dear God, it must be Merlin, it must be. His breath hitches in his throat. That Merlin should do such a thing, just to please him…  
“Merlin, please…”  
The blows stop.    
“Is that your guess?” Arabella asks him, pushing the sweaty hair off of his brow. Grant nods, wordless.    
“Well done,” she says, pressing a kiss to his temple, just above the blindfold. At the same time, Merlin’s prick slides into him, and he gasps at the feeling of it. He’s so on edge, so close, and Merlin fucks him hard, the solid length of his prick sliding within him in a way that makes him see stars against the darkness of his closed eyes.    
“Oh God!” Merlin’s choked voice from behind him drives him further towards the edge. His hips push back, changing the angle so that Merlin’s prick pushes against that most sensitive place inside him with every thrust. He wants to wait, wants Merlin to spend within him, but it is too much. Utterly overwhelmed, Grant spills his seed untouched.    
It is Wellington who catches hold of him afterwards, taking him in his arms and untying the bonds about his wrists. He holds Grant close against his broad chest, gentling him against the tremors that shake him.    
“Steady now,” Wellington says, unfastening the blindfold, and Grant blinks damp lashes against the sudden light. He feels dazed but calm and with no desire to move any more than settling himself more comfortably against Wellington. On the floor beside the fire, Jonathan and William, the two who have yet to have their lust satisfied, are locked together in fierce desperation. Grant watches them, admiring how well they look together but too sated to want to join them.    
“I’ll take that glass of wine now,” Wellington says quietly, and takes it from Arabella. He holds the glass to Grant’s lips so that he can drink and Grant is grateful, suddenly aware of his own thirst.   
He dozes a little, body aching and mind blessedly quiet, lulled by the noise of William fucking Merlin. He stirs only later when they are quiet again and Arabella suggests refreshments. They settle around the fire: a shockingly debauched group, the five of them in a state of undress, sprawled over cushions like the illustrations Grant has seen of Romans at a feast. Wellington pushes Grant gently towards Merlin, who opens his arms to accept him, and then busies himself with pouring wine. De Lancey sprawls before the hearth, leaning his head on Arabella’s knees. He is joking with her and she laughs at him, linking their fingers together. For all there is no spark of attraction between them, they are at ease with one another and it makes Grant glad to see it. He feels so calm in this company: under no obligation to shake off the lazy feeling he gains after engaging in these kinds of games. This is company where he feels no need to worry about appearing in control or in command. Around him they talk and laugh, but he is content to remain quiet.    
He would not have made the effort to eat anything, but Merlin chooses for him, small sweet biscuits that he holds to Grant’s lips so he need do nothing but eat. Jonathan plies him with wine as well and he feels pleasantly drunk on wine and kisses and the way that Merlin caresses him.    
It is, perhaps inevitably, De Lancey who grows restless first. He is not one for idleness and he is young enough to have his desire rise up again with only a little rest. He makes Wellington his target, insinuating his way into his lordship’s arms and then kissing him soundly. Wellington takes it in good humour, pulling the squirming William onto his lap and kneading his arse with both hands.    
Grant watches as Wellington leans back so that William can straddle him. He has an excellent view as William prepares himself and sinks down, taking his lordship’s prick into his body in one slow, careful movement. Grant feels his own length begin to rise again and Merlin pinches hard at one of his nipples, rolling it between his fingers.    
“It is a very fine view, wouldn’t you say?” Merlin says, breath warm on the curve of Grant’s ear.    
“Very fine indeed,” Arabella says from the other side of the fire. She has cupped one breast in her hand, teasing herself as she watches. Grant can feel Merlin’s hardness press against his back as he watches his wife. William, well aware of the audience, moans wantonly and picks up the pace of his hips.    
“Grant,” Jonathan says softly, running his hand down the side of Grant’s face, “earlier we did not finish what we had begun. Would you be averse to continuing?”    
Grant would not. He is already hard again and wanting. Relaxed as he is, his body opens willingly to Jonathan’s fingers and then his prick. In a contented daze he kneels beside the fire as Jonathan fucks him, every thrust of his hips bringing Grant into a stronger state of arousal. He burns with it, and the heat of the flames.   
Dimly he is aware of Wellington and De Lancey watching as Jonathan spills deep within him. He wants, by God he wants, but Jonathan pulls away and makes no move to touch him. His prick aches with unsatisfied need.    
Instead it is Arabella who comes to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and coaxing him down to lie above her. She takes his prick in her hand and guides it slowly into the hot wetness of her body. He sobs a breath at the feel of it, burying his face against her shoulder. She caresses the back of his head with one hand even as she urges him to thrust into her with the other hand against his arse.   
William rolls closer to them, close enough to put an arm around them both and press kisses to any of their skin within reach. Grant is crying out, open mouthed against her shoulder. There’s no refinement in what he does, only a helpless desire to spend.    
“Let go,” William says, “let go.” And Grant does, hips stuttering, jerking over the edge into climax as Arabella folds her arms around him and holds him close.    
She rolls him afterwards, tumbling him into William’s arms. Grant is pressed between them, exhausted and overwhelmed.    
“Are you alright?” William asks him.    
“Tired,” he pants.    
William laughs, the movement of it shaking Grant, and then kisses him. “Sleep then,” he says, “we have you.”    
“We do,” Arabella adds, tucking an arm around him from behind.    
Content, and knowing himself to be surrounded by those who care for him most, Grant does as they suggest.  


End file.
